


How to Tie One's Shoes

by Elialys



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early season 5. A moment between Peter and Etta. Shoes are briefly mentioned. P/O/Etta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Tie One's Shoes

One of the very last memories Peter has of Etta –of a _young_ Etta, hair split in two ponytails, cheeks flushed with frustration, is of her trying to tie her shoes on her own.

At age three, there already was a stubbornness about her that could be in turn endearing and nerve-wracking. Her mother's child. Smart for her age, Etta often found herself annoyed by the existing lag between her mental abilities and her fine motor skills; smart or not, she was still a toddler for the most part, and those fine skills were taking more time to develop than anything that simply required being born with a Bishop brain.

She understood the process of tying her shoes; she could recite the procedure step by step –and she wanted none of this "bunny running around a tree" business. She had glared at her father quite disapprovingly –again, her mother's child, when he had first tried singing her the song.

"Daddy," she told him once he was done, as if he was the child and she had to clarify a few things with him. "There's no bunny in my shoe. I want to tie my _laces_."

Peter threw all the songs and rhymes about tying shoes he had looked up online out the figurative window, giving her the literal explanation instead. Unfortunately, what her mind understood well, her small fingers refused to apply.

On that last morning, the morning of the Park, he eventually managed to convince her to wear her favorite pair of pink Velcro shoes instead, since she refused to let him tie her sneakers.

"Plus, they match your outfit better," he noted, exhibiting a rare moment of fashion sense, tugging at the helms of her pink cardigan, followed by a few obligatory tickles. This finally did the trick, Etta letting him put her sandals on, as he promised her they would work on her sneakers again when they came home later.

Except, none of them came home that night.

Watching his now fully-grown daughter putting together yet another complicated-looking gun, with a speed and dexterity that showed years of experience, Peter thinks about that little girl who tried so hard to tie her shoes. It dawns on him then, how someone else had to take over after him and finish the job. Although he has the nagging feeling she probably ended up perfecting it on her own; from what he has learned these past few weeks about her life without them –those bits of information are always too little and too much, it seems that Etta had to learn to do a great many things by herself during that twenty years gap.

She looks up at him then, probably sensing his gaze on her, or maybe simply noticing the absence of movement on his side of the table; they had both been working on Resistance artillery for the better part of an hour.

She meets his eyes, her lips pursing in a small smile, one eyebrow raised in question.

"What?" she asks, and not for the first time, he thinks about how uncomfortable he's probably making her, whenever she catches him staring at her, the way he is now.

He can't exactly help it, nor does he _really_ want to stop himself; with every hour spent by her side, he realizes how amazing she is, far more incredible than any daydream he may have had about her. For nearly four years, he had dreamed of what she would become, from the moment they learned Olivia was carrying a girl, to that day in the Park, when he watched her blow her wishes into the sky.

His wish at that instant is that he had gotten to see her grow into this stunning young woman, had had the chance to help her get there, instead of coming back into her life so many years later, futilely trying to catch up with two decades of this dystopian existence she'd had to endure on her own.

"Nothing," he answers her with a smile, followed by a small shake of his head; he tries to push the thoughts away, but his voice, deeper and thicker than usual, betrays him "I was just thinking about how to me, it feels like I was teaching you how to tie your shoes barely six weeks ago. Obviously, you've up the ante," he jokes, pointing at the perfectly cleaned and reassembled guns she's been working on. "There probably isn't much I could teach you these days. Unless you're still having trouble with your shoes."

Etta lets out a faint chuckle, more for good measure than anything else; he can tell she's definitely uncomfortable, now. The air is heavy with everything they never talk about, mostly because none of them really wants to talk about these things. No matter how strong the bond he shares with his daughter has remained in spite of the circumstances, these lost years are always _here_ ; the tension they create is even greater whenever he observes Olivia and Etta trying to interact, a sight that never ceases to squeeze his heart, painfully.

Peter wants to say something to ease the tension, now regretting having spoken in the first place, but he knows any word that comes out of his mouth would only make things worse.

He refocuses on the device he's supposed to fix instead, and for a while, they work in silence again. Peter forces himself to shove away from his mind any kind of grim thought he may get, something he's become extremely good at since he was freed from the amber. He thinks instead about how lucky he is, having gotten his family back, all of them, against all odds. He's well aware that Olivia is having more trouble than him adjusting and letting go of what was lost, of _who_ was lost, but he can't afford to think that way

He got both his girls back. That is more than enough.

And then, Etta is speaking again, breaking the silence.

"I don't know how to swim," she says, tentatively; she sounds almost shy.

Peter looks up at her. He notices the faint flush on her pale cheeks, unable not to think again about the small girl she once was. This time, frustration clearly isn't what is coloring her face, and he recognizes the nature of her blush; Olivia's cheeks darken in a similar way, whenever she lets her guard down, exposing herself, letting the more vulnerable side of her show.

He waits for Etta to go on, trying to look more composed than he truly feels. In all honesty, he's quite shaken by the confession itself. He understands perfectly well what she's trying to give him with this admission.

She shrugs a shoulder, managing a smile that is obviously forced. "I never had any reason to learn, or any opportunity to do so, really. They didn't exactly keep public pools opened after the Purge." Then, after a short pause, she adds: "I never even went to the beach." Her eyes become unfocused for a moment, her mind elsewhere, as if trying to recall something. "Unless…maybe we went there, when I was little?"

She's looking at him again, and just like her, he forces himself to smile, swallowing hard. "Actually we did, once," he confirms, his voice too thick again. "Although I'm not surprised you don't remember it. You weren't even three at the time."

Etta may have been too young for her brain to retain much –if any- of it, but the memory of that unplanned escapade couldn't be clearer in Peter's mind. Their lives at the time hadn't allowed them to take anything resembling a real vacation very often, and he had learned to appreciate these moments whenever they presented themselves.

He can still feel Olivia's body against him on that late September morning, her skin fused to his own under the sheets; they were both up before Etta, something even rarer than vacations. Through the thick blind absorbing most of the rising sunlight, Peter could still tell it would be a gorgeous day. Apparently, so did Olivia. It affected her the way some things occasionally did, at that time of day. The early hours of the day always seemed to have some mystic influence on her.

She had lowered her face, her nose leaving his hair to bring her lips to his ear. "Let's go to the beach," she whispered, her breath warm and soft against his skin. "Etta's never seen the ocean."

An hour later, they were on the road, and before 11am, they were walking on sand. Even though summer had come and passed, reducing traffic on the most popular beaches, the one Peter picked was one he knew they would have all to themselves; it was one of the many landmarks in his life he had come to discover through years of moving around, and letting people take _him_ places.

If he was ever allowed to relive one day again and again, this one would be high up on his list of candidates. There was something beautifully soothing in the normality and simplicity of a day like this one. He cherishes every memory he has of it.

Etta's eyes when the water finally came into view as they arrived, and she took in the immeasurable vastness of the ocean.

Her dismayed squeals when her toes were swallowed by the freezing water, after she'd insisted on trying to "go swim", ignoring her parents recommendations, telling her it would be too cold

How after she started running off in the opposite direction, her steps wobbly in this unfamiliar shifting ground, her squealed turned into delighted laughter, Olivia having chased her and caught her under the arms, soon making her spin a few times; this was one of Etta's favorite moves, usually Peter's specialty.

Olivia hadn't laughed, but her smile was soft and tender, her eyes fixed on their daughter's face, filled with the purest kind of love.

" _When we lost her, I felt like that was my punishment... my punishment for being too conflicted to appreciate her when we had her."_

 _This_ is what Peter meant in answer to Olivia's revelation, a few days ago. This is what he remembers most about the way his wife was with their child; these small, ordinary moments when he witnessed her loving Etta without restraint, simply because she was hers.

"Dad?"

Etta's voice, definitely adult, although a bit unsure now, takes him out of his own head, realizing he's gone too deep into the memories.

He blinks a couple of times, refocusing on her. She looks concerned, despite her obvious effort to make it look like polite curiosity.

He offers her another one of his "reassuring smiles", somewhat aware that he can't fool her any more than he can fool her mother. He looks at her, _really_ looks at her, taking in her every trait for the thousandth time this week; under the fine features of his twenty-four year old daughter, he still sees traces of the small girl she used to be.

And again, all he sees is her and Olivia, spinning on the sand, and how afterwards, Olivia had stilled, with Etta's arms around her neck. Cheek against cheek, they had stared at the ocean for a while, the wind playing with their hair and clothes.

"Tell you what, kiddo," Peter eventually speaks again, refocusing on the present. "Once we've completed the plan, won, and kicked the Observers out of our timeline, we'll go to the beach again, the three of us. We'll even teach you how to swim."

He tries to make it sound casual, but his voice remains too thick, even cracking slightly on the words ' _the three of us'_ , betraying how he truly feels about this possibility.

Again, Etta is not fooled; she seems to be in a similar place, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink once more; she nods a little, offering him a small smile. "I would like that," she simply says, almost shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Before long, she's looking back down at her row of weapons, as if she doesn't dare let herself dream too long, as if deep down, she knows this is more wishful thinking than anything else, on both their parts.

Peter keeps his eyes on her a few seconds longer, as always aware that he shouldn't be staring, and doing it anyway. He observes the intense mingling of hope and wariness that have taken over her body language, unable not to think again about how alike her mother she truly is. And he wishes Olivia was in the room to share this moment with him, with them.

 _Look,_ he would say, in his mind at least, through his eyes to hers, maybe. _There's still so much we can teach her, after all, and we will._

_We will._

Even when he eventually looks away, Peter's thoughts remain on the beach. He pictures them again, mother and daughter, staring at the sea, although this time, they will both be standing tall, side by side.

Tall, vulnerable, and strong; the guardians of his heart.


End file.
